


You Fucked Up

by Aifrit



Series: The Stockpile [10]
Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series, Final Fantasy XIII-2, Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dominance, F/F, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Master/Pet, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Submission, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21642781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aifrit/pseuds/Aifrit
Summary: You're fucked up and don't know how to apologize unless it's through sex. Trans Lightning.
Relationships: Lightning/Oerba Dia Vanille
Series: The Stockpile [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1257491
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	You Fucked Up

**Author's Note:**

> Title: You Fucked Up  
> Pairing: Lightning/Vanille  
> Rating: M for language and smut  
> Words: 1,249
> 
> A/N: Here's another fic. I believe this was written around 2016? Enjoy!

You fucked up. Big time. You realize that now. Vanille's eyes tell the entire story. They're burning green and bloodshot, staring at you like you just committed the most gruesome, heinous murder. You can't blame her. It's the same look she had the day before.

"I'm not really sure how to feel right now," she says.

She's leaning against your home office desk, fingers clinging to the edge of it with her head hung. She snuck in earlier. Wanted to talk about the fight you had yesterday. You didn't want to, or rather you were too afraid. But she's here now and upset, and you're pissed at yourself for not being able to show the same outward emotion as she does. Makes you feel heartless, but she knows differently.

You know from her outfit that she came here to show off. It's what she does best. Where you're great at avoiding and keeping to yourself, Vanille does everything but. The blue sundress hugging her frame complements her eyes and hair perfectly. You can't help outlining the way her body looks on your desk. She's got a fair bit of cleavage showing with a limp dress strap. The dress itself isn't long; it stops at mid-thigh and allows for a magnificent view of her tan legs. You take a deep breath at the revelation. This isn't the time to be clouded in dirty thoughts, but what can you say when every emotion you had in your body was somehow related to sex?

Vanille catches your gaze, steals it, holds it. She's quite the actress when she wants to be, and now you can't tell if she's serious or kidding or some odd combination of both. Knowing her, probably both.

"I just wanna feel safe with you again."

She's serious.

Guilt strikes you hard. You wish you hadn't been so stupid. Maybe if you weren't you wouldn't be dealing with this now. But it's over and done with and you had to move on. You had to. For her.

So you walk towards her. She steels herself, looks up at you and curls a pigtail around her finger. You pin her against the desk, foreheads brushing. It takes a second and a prayer before you gather the strength and bravery to capture her lips. They're salty from the tears.

The kiss lasts longer than you anticipated. The bit with tongue surprises you as you assumed she was nowhere near the mood. Maybe you thought wrong.

You break the kiss to paint words on her lips. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Van."

She whines, and it breaks whatever remnants of a "heart" you have left. She pulls away to stare at you, curling into herself to make herself smaller. She keeps your gaze, gives you a once over. It's like she's deciding how to handle you, silently scolding you until you do exactly what she wants to make up for it. And she knows you will.

She hops off the desk, unfastens your jeans while keeping eye contact. They loosen and your member, barely awake, glides against the inside of your boxers. You know what she wants now, and she isn't going to ask politely.

Vanille digs into your shorts and finds you. Pulls you, tugs you. Strokes you. Every touch marks you with remnants of her anger and pain. But there's lust there, longing as well, like she's missed you more than anyone in the world.

You're hard, and it's painful. She cradles and caresses your balls before she stops. You can barely look at her. Shame clouds your vision. You can't be turned on at this, not now when she's still in pain from the day before. Guilt is all you're worth.

Her stare freezes you in place. You're pinned while she moves freely, turning so slowly that you mark every frame of her movements into memory like a five second movie. She leans into the desk, tilts forward on the tips of her toes. Her hands brush yours on the cherry wood. She looks back, waiting, doing that cute thing with her lip.

That's your cue, you realize. And you understand the implication and gravity of her position change. So you press against her. Her outer lips burn against your dick. The sensation drives you past guilt and sadness and straight into pure lust. This is what Vanille wants, and you're going to honor her wishes.

She cries as you enter her. You haven't heard the sound in days; it echoes in the office and is music to your ears. You take it slow, pressing into her to let her grow accustomed to your size again. The desk squeaks under the weight of you both. Vanille drops to her elbows, writhing under you and moaning your name. She lifts her ass just enough so you're buried balls deep inside her.

You collapse over her. The groans that escape are reminiscent of every one that's left you the thousand other times you've slipped inside. It hasn't grown old yet.

Vanille reaches back, pulls her sundress up to expose her ass. She has no clothes here. Not today. These can't get ruined. It's here you notice she's missing underwear. How you didn't realize before baffles you, but you aren't surprised. Vanille loves to show off when she's mad.

You palm her ass with one hand, spread her cheeks, and move. Oerban and Cocoonian swears dribble from her mouth in tandem with the light creaking of the desk. The sounds filling the room have a certain ring to them - intimate yet incredibly raunchy. Vanille's whimpers make her sound like a whore, and your balls slapping into her confirm that. But she isn't just anyone's whore. She's _your_ whore. _Your_ slut. _Your_ little girl who wants too much attention and too much loving yet has you directly by the balls.

Your thrusts ram into her, short and hard. Vanille's leg rises to rest on the desk. Her head lowers and she gazes back at you in an absolute lust-filled stupor. The view proves to be magnificent, completely out of this world. You can't miss the opportunity to fulfill her wishes.

You pin her on the desk under your weight. She whimpers, wriggles and writhes under you as your thrusts grow deeper. Your arms are over her for support. You can't fuck her cunt any harder and five more thrusts in when she's matching you stroke for stroke, she breaks. She screams a little and it reverberates through the room. They dissolve into little spasms across her body, your name spilling from her mouth, and her cunt tightening around your dick.

You don't last much longer. You collapse on top of her, riding out the final four strokes you have in you. Growls brush against Vanille's ear as hot cum seeps from your throbbing dick. Stars dance in front of your eyes. Your body aches.

Vanille's crying beneath you, and you wrap her up in your arms. She clings onto one, still stuck to the desk. She says your name over and over, each iteration more lax than the last. She mumbles something else afterwards. It takes a few repetitions before you understand her.

"Safe... Safe with you. Master."

The words hit you like a truck. This is what your relationship is. Built on a large helping of pure and primal sex. It's your home, your retreat, your awakening, your sleep. It's your comfort and warmth, your bonding time together. This time... it's your apology.


End file.
